


The Art of Precious Scars

by briecheesie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Cute Animals, Dealing With Trauma, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Muggle Culture, Piercings, Rehabilitation, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Small Amounts of Ableist Language, Tacky Decor, Tattoos, Widower Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 06:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20059897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briecheesie/pseuds/briecheesie
Summary: Eight years ago, Draco Malfoy fell off the grid. No sign of death, no proof of life. And yet, here Harry is, standing in the doorway ofPawsitive Thoughts Rehabilitation Center, wondering if he's hallucinating all of the colors in Malfoy's hair.





	The Art of Precious Scars

**Author's Note:**

> lmfao I haven't written a fic in like 6 years, I don't know how this happened. 
> 
> I honestly just wanted Drarry fic that a) was based off of the "Rainbow" album by Kesha and b) where Astoria was treated as the loving, wonderful goddess her wiki page tells me she was. And so when I couldn't find this very specific fic (lmao) I started writing it??
> 
> The title is taken from an article about Kintsugi, which is the Japanese art of filling cracks with gold to emphasize the beauty in something scarred and broken. 
> 
> Anyway thank u for coming 2 my TED Talk.

_ “What do you mean, you’ve ‘lost Draco Malfoy’?” _

Harry frowns at the crumpled piece of parchment held in his hand. The address is correct; he’s sure of it, if for no other reason than the fact that it’s written in Hermione’s delicate scrawl. 

Still.

He looks skeptically at the open, picturesque valley below him. 

_ “We can’t find him, sir. We’ve no record of him since he completed his probation eight years ago.” _

It’s early morning and the sun is low, but Harry can still make out a maze of fences, constructed out of what looks like scrap material, that intersect and go on for miles. A large greenhouse looms among them, with an unevenly painted barn even farther back. 

Sitting in the middle of it all is a cheerful yellow cottage, its turquoise door proudly displaying a cat-shaped knocker hanging just below a large, iron number 3.

3 Buttercup Lane. 

The name matches the nauseatingly storybook scene.

“_How can you have no record of him? He didn’t just disappear. Did you check with Parkinson and Zabini? Any of his other friends from school?” _

Sucking a breath in through his teeth, Harry begins to descend the small hill he landed on, hooking his broomstick on the holster attached to his back. It’s easy work to get to the bottom of the slope, but unease begins to fill his chest now that he only has a few hundred meters left to clear.

_ “Zabini and Parkinson claim they haven’t seen him in years. Legally, we don’t have any reason to force the truth from them. And he hasn’t had any other known associates since the war ended.” _

As Harry approaches the house, the words “Pawsitive Thoughts Rehabilitation Center” make themselves known on a chalkboard by the door, letters drawn in a swooping, decorative cursive. He looks down at the address again.

_ “Why can’t we just give his inheritance to charity? If you ask me, the War Orphan Fund could use it a lot more than that bloody git.” _

_ “Come on, Ron. If he’s still alive, he’s got a right to it.” _

_ “Well, then let’s cross our fingers, yeah?” _

“Yeah,” Harry mutters to himself as he tries to decide whether ringing the ladybug doorbell will make him feel more or less ridiculous than using the cat knocker. 

Always a rebel, he knocks with his fist. 

\---

Harry’s first thought, when the door opens, is that he knows exactly how the Aurors have lost track of Malfoy: He’s shrunk.

His second thought is that, no, that couldn’t be it - because Malfoy didn’t have a birthmark under his left eye.

Harry’s third and final thought is that he probably shouldn’t remember the placement - or lack thereof - of Malfoy’s birthmarks. 

“‘Lo,” the Mini Malfoy says, face scrunching up into a wary expression. His small hand tightens around the doorknob.

“Hi.” Bending slightly at the knees, Harry ducks his head to meet the kid’s eyes, giving what he hopes is a disarming smile. “I’m looking for Draco Malfoy. Is he here?”

“Who’s that?”

“Uhm. Kinda looks like you but… big?”

The kid’s guarded face morphs into a sneer that’s so familiar, Harry feels like he’s been knocked back thirteen years. He’s instantly more confident that he’s at the right address.

“Are you another basket case?” Mini Malfoy asks, finally stepping back from the door. He doesn’t move enough to allow Harry to pass; he merely cocks his hip and folds his arms across his chest with a scowl. It’s entirely too judgemental for someone of his stature.

“...I’m sorry.” Harry has to hold back a laugh at the absurdity of this conversation and, well, this entire bizarre house. “A what?”

“‘S what my Aunt Pansy calls the people who stay here.”

Definitely the right address.

“Your Aunt Pansy is a lousy influence and I’ve told you to stop listening to her rubbish!” a voice calls from somewhere inside. Though he hasn’t heard it in eleven years, Harry recognizes it immediately. His brain is busy trying to analyze the peculiar, almost gentle quality that sounds so out of place in Malfoy’s posh accent, when Malfoy himself comes up behind his tiny clone.

And then Harry’s brain stops working entirely. 

\---

_ “Ron would rather we just forget the whole thing and declare him dead,” Hermione huffs, digging into her purse to pull out a crumpled piece of parchment. “Apparently Luna has been in contact with him the whole time. I had to promise her the utmost discretion, that all you were trying to do was ensure his inheritance went to its rightful place. _”

_ Furrowing his brow, Harry takes the paper from her hand and stares at the writing, trying to make sense of the situation. He’s not sure where he wants to begin. _

_ “Luna...Wait, but why the disappearing act? Did she say?” _

_ “No,” Hermione responds primly, smoothing out her skirt. “I didn’t ask. And I suggest you don’t, either. Just find him, tell him that his awful father has finally passed, and that what’s left of the Malfoy fortune goes to him.” She frowns, the one that Harry hates, that says she’s being Serious, and adds, “And then leave him be, Harry. I mean it.” _

_ “Well, er, yeah. What else would I do?” _

_ Hermione’s frown stretches into a grim line. _

_ “I never know with you and him.” _

\---

There are colors in Malfoy’s hair. Sparkling, shifting colors like the inside of a kaleidoscope has been poured out on the top of his head. The ends are still that blinding platinum, but the roots shimmer in brilliant patterns almost like Teddy’s hair does when he’s excited. The style is the same length Harry remembers, but the strands are loose and soft with a slight curl, rather than sharply slicked back. The word “touchable” filters through Harry’s brain unbidden. 

As soon as he thinks he’s able to process the hair, Harry notices the freckles dotting the bridge of Malfoy’s tanned nose (and, wait, since when was Malfoy _anything_ but sickly pale?) and the _ multiple face piercings. _Delicate silver balls decorate the skin high on Malfoy’s left cheekbone, in both of his dimples, and under the left side of his lips.

Lips, which have formed into a familiar smirk that only sort of has Harry feeling like the ground's stopped moving under him.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Potter.”

“Haven’t I?” Harry reminds himself that he’s an Auror, trained to be composed in all situations, no matter how disconcerting. “Everyone at home thinks you’re dead.”

“Come now, Potter.” Malfoy’s smirk melts into a wry smile. “I doubt very much that anyone thinks of me at all.”

Harry’s not sure why he feels so guilty; he and Malfoy were hardly friends. Still, it’s a bit odd knowing that life just moved on for both of them whether they were in each other’s orbits or not. After six years of actively tormenting each other, it’s strange that they've just become blips in each other’s shared history.

“Father?” The Mini Malfoy still hasn’t let his guard down, eyes narrowed at Harry in suspicion. Harry wonders if the hatred of him is genetic. 

“Right, right.” Malfoy waves a dismissive hand in the air and pulls his child away from the door, allowing Harry to step inside. “Come on in and regale me with whatever it is that forced you to track me down.” As he speaks, Malfoy takes the kid’s hand and leads them down a narrow hallway. The walls are lavender, with smiling pictures of Malfoy, his son, and a woman littering the walls. Harry feels distinctly unnerved. “I suspect it’s that Father's finally kicked the bucket.”

Malfoy’s tone has gone flat, the switch abrupt enough to drag Harry’s eyes away from a photograph of Malfoy laughing so hard, tears are coming out of his eyes. 

“Err,” Harry says awkwardly, not quite sure how to proceed. He hasn’t had to inform a victim’s loved one of their death since he was promoted from Junior Auror; he’s rusty. “Well, yes. So-”

“I don’t want the inheritance.”

Halting in surprise, Harry watches Malfoy’s retreating back. He can’t see the expression on Malfoy’s face, but he can see the way Malfoy's shoulders have tensed. If the confused frown Mini Malfoy is shooting his father is anything to go by, the child’s noticed as well. “Pardon?”

“The inheritance,” Malfoy says slowly, as though he doesn’t find Harry any cleverer than he did in school. He stops walking, prompting Harry to switch gears and catch up, but doesn’t turn around. “I don’t want it. Throw it in the river or give it to charity; I don’t care.”

“But it belongs to yo--”

“It belongs to a _ Malfoy _.” There are complicated layers in the way Malfoy says his last name, ones that Harry thinks would take years to untangle. Years he doesn’t care to spend thinking about Malfoy in any sort of manner, so he rolls his eyes and waits for Malfoy to expand on his terse statement. As they approach what looks like a large recreational area, Malfoy makes a sharp turn down a flight of lime green stairs. “I’m sad to say that the Malfoy line died with my father.”

“What?” Harry’s not sure if he’s asking about the comment or the hideous decor. 

Malfoy finally pauses at the entrance to a cozy kitchen, far more tasteful than the tragic upstairs. It reminds Harry a little of the burrow; maybe what the burrow looked like when Molly only had one child to keep track of, without all of the chaos that still makes Harry feel like home. 

“Don’t just stand there gaping,” Malfoy snaps, gesturing to the table at the center of the room. Mini Malfoy has already climbed onto a chair, distracted by the paper and crayons waiting for him. Feeling distinctly off kilter, Harry approaches. He keeps his eyes out for any unexpected movements.

Malfoy rolls his eyes. 

“As I was saying,” he sighs as he pulls a kettle out of a cabinet and starts preparing tea the muggle way. He breathes, once, twice, then says evenly, “Legally, my name is Draco Black-Greengrass. My son is Scorpius Greengrass. There are no Malfoys left.”

“Greengrass…” Harry frowns, the name picking at something in the far recesses of his mind. Mini Malfoy - Scorpius - bites his tongue in concentration as he colors what might be a lake. 

“Don’t strain yourself, Potter. I know you could never deign to remember your classmates who didn’t--” With a snap, Malfoy’s mouth shuts and his gaze darts awkwardly to his son. Clearing his throat, he finishes, “--worship you. My wife’s sister was Daphne Greengrass. She took potions with you for five years.”

The number of questions Harry has triples. He has no idea which direction to go and it’s mind-numbingly infuriating that even after becoming next in line for Head Auror, Draco _ Malfoy _ can _ still _ reduce Harry to a confused mess.

He takes in a breath, gives himself a five second pause, then says, “Er, _was_? Did… did Daphne pass?” 

Harry doesn’t remember her name from the list of war victims; he has it memorized for the nights when he’s feeling particularly up for self-flagellation. 

A crayon falls on the floor and Harry looks to Scorpius, whose eyes have grown watery and twice their size.

“Aunt Daphne?” the child asks, with barely disguised panic. Malfoy is at Scorpius’ side so quickly, Harry almost thinks he apparated the short distance. 

“No, love, Aunt Daphne is _ fine. _ She’ll be over tomorrow with Aunt Pansy.” A gentle kiss is dropped onto Scorpius’ head, before Malfoy’s gaze is focused back on Harry with so much venom, it might as well have been sixth year again. 

“_Auror Potter_,” he says, words brittle and sharp. “A word?”

\---

_ “Are you sure this isn’t… below your pay grade?” Robards asks during morning tea. “I can have one of the Junior Aurors do it. Hell, I can have someone’s assistant do it.” _

_ “You know our history, sir. I’d feel better seeing what he’s been up to all this time myself.” Harry pauses, wondering if he should divulge this next part. His trust in Robards wins out. “Also, er, I promised to keep it… need to know. Technically, I wasn’t even supposed to tell you.” _

_ “And why is that?” _

_ “Well… that’s what I want to find out.” _

\---

“Astoria - _ my wife _ \- is the one who passed. Three years ago. It was very traumatic for Scorpius, so I beg of you to please refrain from prematurely offing any of his other beloved mother figures while he’s present.”

“Er…”

“And _ why_, may I ask, are you still here? I’ve told you I don’t want anything more to do with the Malfoy legacy-”

It’s almost like art, the way Malfoy has gained the ability to rant without taking a breath. His piercings glint in the patch of sunlight as he paces back and forth in front of a window, where Harry can now see... baby goats, of all things, running around outside. Harry still feels adrift, sort of detached from the bizarro world he’s found himself in, but having Malfoy distracted by his own irritation gives Harry a chance to take stock. 

He breathes. In and out, like Ginny taught him to do when he’s feeling overwhelmed, kind of like Malfoy had done earlier. When he thinks he’s gathered enough of his wits to fake it, he barks, “Malfoy!” loud enough to stop the other man mid-sentence.

Before Malfoy can say anything else, Harry lowers his voice to a normal volume and says, “Er, what… _ is _ here, exactly?”

Finally, it seems to be Malfoy’s turn to be caught off guard. He wrings his hands nervously, bottom lip caught between his teeth. A flush settles on his freckled cheeks.

“It’s…” He shrugs, then releases his hands and gestures vaguely at their surroundings. He’s clearly uncomfortable when he says, “It’s a rehabilitation center.”

“A rehabilitation center,” Harry echoes flatly. Linguistically, the words make sense. He understands their meaning. It’s the context that baffles him. 

But everything about Draco Malfoy’s new life has baffled him so far. 

Malfoy sighs, blowing at an errant piece of kaleidoscope hair out of his face. The fight hasn’t drained out of him, not exactly, but he’s at least stopped pacing. 

“Yes. Have all the screaming fans finally cost you your hearing? A rehabilitation center.” Over Malfoy’s twitching shoulder, Harry can still see through the window. A teenager has joined the goats outside, laying in the field as they prance around her head. “For war survivors and… purebloods who want to unlearn everything their families raised them to believe. Astoria and I set it up shortly before Scorpius was born. Luna helped; I assume that’s how you found me.”

Harry watches a baby goat curl into a ball next to the girl.

“Honestly, Malfoy," he says, "I’m not entirely sure _ what _ I’ve found.”

A pinched expression crosses Malfoy's face; he appears to be doing some mental gymnastics of his own. Harry's eyes wander back to the girl outside, to the ugly scars decorating the hand she's using to pet the goat.

“Alright," Malfoy says finally, prim and proper. "If you’re anything like you used to be, you won’t leave well enough alone until you’re satisfied."

Harry shuts down the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Hermione. He shrugs, rather than acknowledge the validity in Malfoy's statement.

"Well, then," Malfoy says with some finality. "Fancy a tour?"

Harry nods and lets himself be led.

\----

It’s around the time they’ve reached the greenhouse that the little compound begins to come alive. Wizards and witches of all ages have slowly made themselves known, partaking in mundane farming tasks without the use of magic. Malfoy catches Harry staring at a young man milking a cow with his hands and offers, “Magic is limited to entertainment purposes here. All functional tasks are done the muggle way.”

Harry’s neck might have snapped with how quickly he turns to look at Malfoy, whose lips are quirked, as though he’d just told Harry something very funny.

“Problem?” Malfoy wonders, voice deceptively casual. 

Unwilling to lose whatever game is being played here, Harry pointedly eyes Malfoy’s kaleidoscope hair. The shifting colors are even more brilliant in the sun, little sparks of light popping here and there.

“Entertainment?” he asks flatly. Malfoy’s smirk widens.

“I’ll have you know, Potter, I am _ quite _ entertaining.”

Harry is saved from having to come up with a response to that by a woman around their age, who very nearly topples Malfoy over in her exuberance. Malfoy appears to take it in stride, however, grinning in a way that has Harry taking notice of the laugh lines around his eyes. The square of her jaw is familiar, but the smile on it is as foreign as everything else Harry’s experienced today.

“_Bulstrode_?” 

Millicent Bulstrode turns her large, broad frame toward Harry - even now, she nearly matches him in height. But there’s nothing intimidating about her shape and size now; instead, she’s covered in what looks like brightly colored paint and her smirk bears nothing but humor.

“Harry Friggin’ Potter,” she says with a low whistle. “I’ll be damned.”

“Millie was referred to us from Daphne. It’s her last week here.” Malfoy speaks with such pride in his voice that Harry feels irrationally guilty for the contempt that bubbles up at the sight of Bulstrode; he still remembers her as a bully. 

He still remembers Malfoy breaking his nose.

He makes a non-committal sound rather than comment. 

He thinks he’s seen quite enough. 

\---

It’s not until Harry is two pints in, regaling an incredulous Ron with the tale of Draco _ Malfoy’s _ new hippie dippie life that he realizes: He forgot to have Malfoy sign the damn paperwork refusing his inheritance. 

It’s fine. He can send his assistant tomorrow. His curiosity has been sated, there’s no need for him to go back. 

...Although, he never really got to see what was growing _ inside _ the greenhouses, nor what Bulstrode had been working on. And how many types of animals were on the farm, anyway? Is _ everything _ functional done the mu--

“Uh, mate? You good, there?” 

Harry blinks.

“Er, yeah. Where was I?”

“Baby-bleedin’-goats if I’m to believe a word out of you.”

“Right,” Harry says, shifting against the uncomfortable bar stool. "Baby goats."

He’ll send his assistant tomorrow. 


End file.
